Men Who Take Vaxxies.

While “men” who take ordinary selfies to begin with are already endlessly irksome (not just for their vanity, but for being classed among a certain type of dickless “male”), that irritation is compounded tenfold by those who would take a vaxxie.

And yet, it is also completely expected that “men” would be the gender to most happily perpetrate this crime against humanity when taking into account it’s very difficult for them to find a sense of pride in much of anything these days.

Considering it’s one of the few “gender neutral” things to do in 2021 (that is to say, no one can politicize the act based on gender), it’s no wonder “men” have been just as eager as women to delight in curating the image of their arm being “penetrated”—the nature of such a photo being undeniably suggestive and innuendo-laden when coming from a “man.” For, whereas Cher Horowitz said, “Sometimes you have to show a little skin. This reminds boys of being naked, and then they think of sex,” “men” now instead declare, “Sometimes you have to show a phallic symbol piercing into your skin. This reminds women of being penetrated, and then they think of sex.” 

There are, of course, a number of “men” who would only seek to post a vaxxie so as to assure his female followers that he’s “ready to mingle.” A.k.a.: “Yo girl, get that waxed pussy out now that we’re both vaxxed.” As if they weren’t both flitting around even before the vaccine became available… so why bother pretending they’re both being “responsible” now? More inane still, the fact that one’s face is covered anyway for the proverbial “shot.” A “man” could just as easily post a pic of someone else with a similar build and sartorial style getting it and still pass it off as his own. It ain’t that fuckin’ special.

The “gimmick vaxxie” is also part of the more “male”-oriented version of the practice, during which the “man” in question somehow finds a way to promote himself, his “job” or some product he’s shilling as part of his “job” by tying it non-cohesively back to getting his shot. But hey, whatever works for a “man” to make himself part of a national conversation that won’t ultimately seek to berate him for his very existence.  

Men Who Feel The Need To Emphasize Their “Point” With Capital or Bold Letters.

In their endless bid to “man”splain, the average “male”—particularly the white supremacist one who hates when his sense of patriarchal dominance feels rattled—also favors what adds up to being possessed by cave“man” parlance via use of “enraged” capital or bold letters. But all these letter formatting tactics have ever done is prove that a “man” knows his so-called “point” rests on, well, not much of anything. Only on the perception that he’s being threatened. That his fragile ego has somehow been questioned to a threshold where he wants to lash out and say something like, “YOU DON’T GET IT. AT ALL.” Or, “You don’t get it. At all.” But darling, what is there to “get,” really, except that you blow a gasket when someone presents anything you don’t agree with?

What he might as well say in non-bolded, non-capital letters is, “You’re a dumb cunt. You know nothing, I know everything. Shut the fuck up.” It would be more effective than the frivolous—and ultimately detracting—bells and whistles of the aforementioned. 

His fear that his words will not be heard or “fathomed” indicate he knows that no one is really listening, and if they are, they don’t actually give a shit about his opinion. Yet he begs—needs—to be heard. That was the “God-given” “male” right for so long, after all. Still is, in fact…there’s just more vocalized “pushback” against it now. But “men” can’t handle any form of being “called out” for what amounts to their entitled behavior. Can’t tolerate experiencing any form of “persecution.” As just about everyone else without a white penis has since time immemorial. 

Alas, because white “men” haven’t had to try for so long, the sudden societal expectation that they need to seems to shake them to their very core. Incidentally, part of “trying” would include actually coming up with some words and phrases that were cutting enough on their own without needing to “color them in,” like a little “boy” with his crayons, by way of the caps lock and/or bold buttons. Whatever he might be trying to “man”splain by, obviously, tearing you and your very existence apart as best he can with his sputtering words, it would surely be better served with the staidness of conventional typescript. But then, that would imply what he had to say would be laid bare entirely, only for us to find that he’s saying nothing at all. It’s just more bloviation from the white supremacist nation. 

Men Who Are Still Guilty of Mansplaining.

It was, at this point, all the way back in 2008 that Rebecca Solnit released her seminal essay, “Men Explain Things To Me.” In 2014, it would go on to become the crux of her eponymous collection of essays, which also featured such titles as “The Longest War.” And it has, indeed, been the longest war–that is to say, the one between “men” and women, generally spurred by “men” constantly “clapping back” when they feel they’re being attacked or that their “authority” is being in any way “stepped on.” Women, in contrast, are still expected to sit quietly and listen intently to what the “sage” “male” has to say. To accept that her opinion is real cute and all, but now how about she sits back and listens to an “expert.” And, of course, if she says anything to negate his thoughts, he comes back with a condescending “explanation” (or “mansplanation,” if you will) of how it’s really sweet that she has her “beliefs,” but here are all the reasons she’s wrong. 

Some “men” will simply respond to you with a flat-out, “No” to a thoughtfully composed “opinion” (because of course everything a woman “believes” is just an opinion–it couldn’t possibly be doctrine the way “men’s” words are). If a woman ever said “No” as a starter to a response to a “man,” it would not be received lying down. And maybe if this woman was fortunate enough to be deemed a Scholar on certain subject matters like Solnit, she would have a bit more clout, which is why Solnit admits, “I’ve had a lot more confirmation of my right to speak and think than most women, and I’ve learned that a certain amount of self-doubt is a good tool for correcting, understanding, listening and progressing–though too much is paralyzing and total self-confidence produces arrogant idiots.” Unfortunately, most packing a vagina (not to exclude trans people or nothin’–that wasn’t a J.K. Rowling moment) do not have the good fortune of being slapped with a Legitimate Book Publisher. 

Luckily, Solnit can speak for the majority of women when she says, “I[’ve] objected to the behavior of a man, only to be told that the incidents hadn’t happened at all as I said, that I was subjective, delusional, overwrought, dishonest–in a nutshell, female.” Because “credibility is a basic survival tool,” “men” have been at the top of the food chain since the dawn of time, whereas women are so often working to survive without it. And still managing to prove their infinite value while operating with far fewer tools (well, minus the tools that are “men” themselves).  

Solnit is careful to note that even those female voices subjugated in the West still somehow have it “better” than most other women on this planet, as she remarks, “More extreme versions of our situation exist in, for example, those Middle Eastern countries where women’s testimony has no legal standing: so that a woman can’t testify that she was raped without a male witness to counter the male rapist.” 

Upon the release of Wanderlust in 2000, Solnit realized it was only after its acclaim that she gained a new level of confidence that many women still can’t ever imagine. Prior to that, she realized, “Most of my life, I would have doubted myself and backed down. Having public standing as a writer of history helped me stand my ground, but few women get that boost, and billions of women must be out there on this seven-billion-person planet being told that they are not reliable witnesses to their own lives, that the truth is not their property, now or ever. This goes way beyond Men Explaining Things, but it’s part of the same archipelago of arrogance. Men explain things to me, still. And no man has ever apologized for explaining, wrongly, things that I know and they don’t.”

So often, there is no point in responding to anything “men” say. Especially in the comments section of, say, a pop culture article. As Solnit put it, “His scorn was so withering, his confidence so aggressive, that arguing with him seemed a scary exercise in futility and an invitation to more insult.”

Women who bother with wasting their breath (at least vocally and in front of the “man” in question as it’s happening) know better by now. That the “man” is incapable of “reception.” Or being convinced of anything other than what his own doctrine is. A doctrine he feels should be spread because “explaining men assume [we are], in some sort of obscene impregnation metaphor, an empty vessel to be filled with their wisdom and knowledge.”

The fact that “men” have never known what it’s like to “fight wars on two fronts, one for whatever the putative topic is and one simply for the right to speak, to have ideas, to be acknowledged to be in possession of facts and truths, to have value, to be a human being” actually makes their opinion ultimately less valuable anyway. 

After the essay’s release, things, of course, got more meta for Solnit as she described, “Some men explained why men explaining things to women wasn’t really a gendered phenomenon.”

And it was a phenomenon indeed, as the essay made the rounds and clearly seemed to resonate with women everywhere. Solnit pointed out, “By 2012, the term ‘mansplained’… was being used in mainstream political journalism… and I was sometimes credited with it. In fact, I had nothing to do with its actual creation, though my essay, along with the men who embodied the idea, apparently inspired it.” Alas, even after all this time, “men” don’t appear to understand that they’re the joke when they continue to mansplain. Many of them are still too young to have an excuse for acting in such an old guard way. But then, that’s just a testament to how it takes generations for a trait to be stamped out. What’s more, pissing off the old guard is getting easier and easier to do. They’re all so rattled by losing power that they’ve turned into barking chihuahuas–all bark, no bite–ready to yap at the slightest movement of one’s mouth. Especially if what comes out of that mouth shatters their fragile worldview. 

We cannot continue to live in an environment where “men’s” “presumption… makes it hard, at times, for any woman in any field; that keeps women from speaking up and from being heard when they dare; that crushes young women into silence by indicating, the way harassment on the street does, that this is not their world. It trains us in self-doubt and self-limitation just as it exercises men’s unsupported overconfidence.” 

In short, stop rewarding mediocrity–as has been the case for centuries of white men taking up spaces that they were only in possession of by non-virtue of their skin tone and gender. In 2020, Taylor Swift’s “mad woman” from folklore would become like a sardonic and bittersweet addendum to Men Explain Things To Me in pop song form. Because the go-to for “men” to dismiss women is, even to this day, to brand them as “cuckoo.” Thus, Swift sarcastically sings, “Every time you call me crazy, I get more crazy/What about that?/And when you say I seem angry, I get more angry.” As is the usual “male” “right.” Thus, Swift, oozing with venom, delivers the chorus, “And there’s nothing like a mad woman/What a shame she went mad/No one likes a mad woman/You made her like that.” She further illuminates, “Now I breathe flames each time I talk/My cannons all firin’ at your yacht/They say, ‘Move on,’ but you know I won’t.” Rightly so. For how can any woman “move on” when every day–for what will be the foreseeable future–she’s faced with a battlefield for merely expressing herself? Is that enough of a fucking explanation for you?

Men Who Re-engage the Same Memories Shared With An Old Girlfriend For Use On A New One.

For “men,” “trading in for a new model” has always been commonplace (and parlance)–even if the current “model” he has is already youthful to begin with. And even though being crass about switching to a new girl at a moment’s notice has been rendered less and less socially acceptable to brag about (relegated to the “behind closed doors” phenomenon called “locker room talk,” as the Orange One is well-versed in), it doesn’t mean his actions can’t still scream the words not being said. Words that pertain to, as Olivia Rodrigo recently pointed out, just another form of invoking déjà vu. In fact, that’s what her latest song is called. 

A song that’s all about the type of “man” who feels perfectly comfortable re-conjuring the same memories he shared with his ex even though that ex thought he at least respected her enough and valued what they had enough to make some vague attempt at more originality with the new bia. Then again, maybe it speaks to the notion that, as Rodrigo elucidates lyrically, “men” are ultimately reliant upon women who can make decisions about activities–this includes, apparently, driving to Malibu, getting strawberry ice cream, trading jackets and, unfortunately, watching reruns of Glee. Because, obviously, most “men” lack a sense of originality (even if Rodrigo showcases a predilection for basicness, at least she comes up with something). That’s why they do so often rip every great line they’ve ever had from a woman (*cough, cough* F. Scott Fitzgerald).

And it’s honestly a wonder “men” were ever deemed to “wear the pants” (before Katharine Hepburn broke down that barrier) when they lack any viable form of assertiveness or dominance in terms of being able to steer the memories ultimately cultivated from a romance (sort of like what Clementine does for Joel in Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind). Then again, there was a time when “Johnny” loved to take “Susie” to “Lovers Lane” circa the 50s and make out, but that was more “the thing to do,” than any testament to “Johnny’s” originality in coming up with “interesting ways” to spend time with “Susie.” 

So yes, for the “man” who appears endlessly “okay” with re-creating the exact replica of a dead relationship with a different eventual corpse, there is a special category of dicklessness. For it also indicates a certain soullessness and spinelessness, to boot. That’s a lot of important missing parts. 

And yeah, maybe we’re all guilty in some way of trying to replace an old relationship with a new one. Telling ourselves that with a tweak here or a modification there, it can be just like that original edition but better. Because clearly things didn’t work out for whatever reason with the “old permutation,” even though they were probably the love of your life, but whatever (like Haddaway asked, “What Is Love?” anyway). So you try your best to make it work in a similar vein with a new person. It just seems as though “men” (short of being John Cusack in a rom-com) are much more prone to and skeevier about this behavior of “re-creating.” It doesn’t bother them to go to the same places and do the same things with a different girl because, well, they’re a pretty mentally checked out breed, so maybe it never even fully occurs to them what they’re doing. That’s just lazy sociopathy in motion. And why they can’t explain their ever-present sense of déjà vu.

Men Who Say, “Glad to Be Living Rent-Free in Your Head.”

While it’s decidedly more of a dumb cunt thing to say something as “Live Laugh Love”-inspired as, “Glad to be living rent-free in your head,” there are “men” who have fallen prey to the feminine disease that is this “rejoinder” to just about anything deemed “too negative” to be “absorbed.” Such “thoughts” tend to come into play most in the conservative versus liberal death pit, where one party consistently tries to one-up the other for relevancy, therefore grotesquerie. Spoiler alert: neither party will ever be relevant as the entire “system” needs to be blown up and remade.

Going back to when the phrase first started to be regurgitated noticeably ad nauseam, in 2018, many were likely delighted when a “man” such as Michael Avenatti, a.k.a. Stormy Daniels’ lawyer (who would end up embezzling $300,000 from her), responded to Trump’s accusation that he was a “lowlife” (just another white bread 1950s insult the Orange One has brought back, along with “nasty woman” and “thug”), with, “I am thoroughly enjoying living in your head rent-free, Donald Trump.” Just as Lady Caca would echo a similar sentiment as the election dragged on back in November (with Caca performing at his Pittsburgh rally) of this year, the “insult” seems often to be directed at the Orange One, who, make no mistake, is never really allowing anyone in his head “rent-free” except himself. What’s more, do the people offering up this “witty” riposte understand how untenable the idea of being anywhere near Trumpio’s “mind” is? It ain’t no fuckin’ picnic the way it is inside John Malkovich’s head, let us say that. No sir, that is one “sunken place” you do not want to end up in, free or otherwise.

Then, of course, there are the non-famous “men” who feel comfortable using the phrase with women they feel have been dwelling too long on a slight (usually pertaining to ghosting or a heartless and heinous breakup). If they offer you anything at all, it will be this sentiment, as though to make you look like the “freak” for giving so much of a shit that they fueled the fire of your abandonment and trust issues. Because if living in an epoch since Gen X rose to prominence has taught us anything by now, it’s that caring is not “cool.”

And to the “man” who would say to me, “Glad to be living rent-free in your head,” the only response is: “Are you? Are you fucking glad to be living rent-free in my head? Because I really don’t think you fucking would be. I think you’d look for any means necessary to kill your damn self, and would probably find a more than adequate tool to do so as suicide is one of the primary thoughts at the forefront of my mind at any given moment. Along with the contempt of being a misanthrope that sparks random rage flare-ups at the drop of a hat (especially a beret).” So sure, please, enter one of the rooms in my vastly expanding tenement, with so many people inside of it to think about on a loathing basis that pretty soon, I might actually have to start charging.

Men With Histrionic Tendencies.

While it is generally women who are accused of histrionic behavior (see: any one of their Instagram accounts, whether high-level influencer or low-level wannabe, and also the fact that “women are diagnosed with HPD roughly four times as often as men”), the “male” tendency toward it cannot be denied. Nor the fact that when a “man” does have Histrionic Personality Disorder, the consequences are often far graver (no murder pun intended). Let us take one of the most glaring examples of this phenomenon in the form of Michael Alig, recently departed by way of a heroin overdose (even going so far as to seek attention via such a dramatic death). His entire existence was based upon upping the ante on methods of being noticed. He craved attention as though it were a SAD lamp, giving off, at the bare minimum, 10,000-lux rays of approval in his direction.

If this sounds familiar, it’s because, yes, the current “president” still clinging to his final dregs of power is the same way. In both the cases of the Orange One and Alig, it’s the stock excuse of blaming childhood for their eventual mutation into monsters, one political and one party. For Alig, being bullied as a South Bend, Indiana gay boy was likely plenty of negative attention to make him yearn for the approval that came with “positive” attention of his own making. For Trump, constantly desiring to both one-up and be revered by his patriarch has led to the gross ogre we see before us today (though Daddy Trump was perhaps even more despicable–or it might be neck and neck–it’s just that he didn’t end up ascending to the highest office in America in order to spread that contemptibility so far).

Like a not so distant cousin of Narcissistic Personality Disorder, HPD, too, leaves “men” feeling (granted, they can’t feel much at all) cold and unmoved by anything other than validation, often by soaking up the energies of those around them–whether women or “men”–manipulating the social strata for purposes that will make them the center of the “narrative” they’ve crafted in their mind. One in which, of course, they’re the star. It’s all very Norma Desmond, herself likely a sufferer of the disorder.

Alig’s blasé approach to the murder of Angel Melendez retrospectively comes off more than ever as a symptom not only of HPD, but white “male” privilege. Drugged out of his mind or not, if Alig was Black or Latino, there’s no goddamn level of inebriation that would’ve made him think it was okay (a.k.a. he would get with it) to kill someone… and then dismember him. HPD itself also reeks of a privilege generally reserved for white “men,” which is just another reason it’s a more odious disorder in this sex than in the female one (no one ever got that upset over seeing some titties and ass flashed at them for attention, whereas being, oh, murdered or subjugated in cruel and unusual ways tends to be the fallout for dealing with a “man” who has HPD).

For those who fell for Alig’s “good time” shenanigans, tinged with such an overt toxicity as they were, it was difficult to reconcile–especially for Melendez, clearly–that they had been mere props in his tableau. Still, some were happy to be associated with and used by him even after he was jailed, visiting him at the correctional facility as though it was just another “offbeat” locale where he was having a party. That’s the thing about “male” histrionics: they’re oddly capable of maintaining a devoted following. Even long after they’re dead.

Men Who Are Obsessed With Karen.

Does she even exist (in non-Lana Del Rey form)? Or is it just another conveniently file-able stereotype for “men” to classify women so they don’t have to think so hard. Technically speaking, the evolution of “Karen” as a catch-all term for upper middle class white women with anti-science, anti-“the help” “values” did arise from a real person. And, like all things, the Karen trope existed long ago, not just in 80s-era terms like “yuppie” or “richie,” but, as is the case with most memes that go viral well after it already made the rounds on Reddit, Karen was born there. Specifically from a bloke who was basing the stereotype on the ex-wife of a fellow Reddit user, telling his internet brethren all about how she took the kids and the house. It’s the exact sort of entitlement Karens have come to exemplify to those looking for the perfect witch to burn in the endless American trial called rampant inequality and injustice. Which Americans seem ostensibly more enraged about on a regular basis as their Constitution has falsely claimed life could be otherwise, where other countries appear to be more realistic about the inherent life cycle (under pretty much any economic system) of one party being subjugated and the other doing the subjugating. A classist yin and yang balance, if you will.   

And yet, what’s most odd about Karen taking such flight in all facets of where pop culture is disseminated is that “men” are the ones who seem to derive the most pleasure from wielding the “insult.” That Karen was, indeed, sprung from the rib of a “man,” so to speak, could have some accounting for why they seem to be more obsessed with her than women. Or, it’s simply the age-old story of “men” naturally getting off on anything that debases women, even if only a “subset” of them. Then again, Karen is also debasing herself by being the sort of broad who marries a CEO, a cop (or chief of police), a corporate defense lawyer, etc. What’s more, there’s no denying that the most frequent users of the trope are those who embody the spirit of the Karen class themselves, though, of course, they would either 1) never admit it or 2) think this form of self-deprecation gives them a pass for having privilege. 

The hard-on for turning a “white woman’s” name into something derogatory comes at a time when contempt for white folk is at a fever pitch, and, indeed culls from some of the same inspiration Keegan-Michael Key took in the Key and Peele sketch, “The Substitute Teacher,” transforming white people names into pronunciations that suit his own “culture” (namely, subverting the way Jacqueline, Blake, Denise and Aaron are said) in the spirit of what was done to “ethnic” students in the past by their white teachers. The payback factor in this shoe on the other foot parody feels especially salient in the joy of calling out Karens. Even if the majority seeming to do so are self-hating whites themselves (after all, you have to be pretty self-hating to treat others the way whites with power do). More to the point, “men” who are obsessed with Karen. As if they wouldn’t take plenty of pleasure in turning her around and fucking her up the ass if she let them. Alas, she’s too prim for such things. And that’s part of why “men,” especially, love to hate on her. It’s merely grounds for misogyny (you don’t see no “man’s” name getting dragged even half as much for being a white stereotype) under the guise of being a “social advocate.” Just as much as Karen thinks she is.

Men Who Are Proponents of the Surgi Mask Because It Solves the Butter Face Problem.

Because “men” have never been very particular or discerning as a breed, there frequently comes a time when he will opt for the phenomenon of a woman known as a “butter face.” You know the trope: a woman with a “hot” body but a rather unfortunate visage to go with it. As in: “She’s got a great body–but-her-face…” Well, never has there been a better time for “men” with low standards to thrive. To “clean up,” as they say, on the unwanted dregs of women now forced to conceal their butter faces in public with a surgical mask–usually “required” in most stores, though that’s a word that has remained as loose with most Americans as the classification of American beauty. To some, so long as it’s a woman with the right body specifications, she’s “beautiful enough.” In fact, “[insert adjective or noun here] enough” is the low bar Americans set for themselves long ago when they decided to settle in a shithole wasteland with terrible weather (yes, that’s shade at the East Coast and its colonial settlers). 

So long as something just barely qualifies as satisfying, an American–particularly an American “male”–is pretty okay with it. I mean, just look at the U.S. president. Not even qualifying as satisfying, yet still, that’s what was pursued, asked for. Just as it is with the butter faces of this world. For who wants a pretty face, let alone anything resembling a “healthy mind,” when one can simply rail the physique that best suits his fetishes? Ones that might further amplify when she chooses to keep her mask on even while indoors. After all, it’s better than using a paper bag instead (see: Nip/Tuck, season three, episode eleven: “Abby Mays”). Indeed, maybe it adds a bit of much needed kink for both parties trying to ignore the elephant that is her face in the room. 

Because women do not have an option to call a “man” something like a butter face in normal circumstances, the victory of the surgi mask in terms of covering a countenance once too unbearable to look at in comparison to a “sick” body (if the body matched the face, of course no one would be looking in their direction at all–also known as: The Fat Person’s Invisibility Irony) isn’t as triumphant for them as “men.” Just another effortless vindication that seems to be merely congenital with having a so-called penis. In one of the many glaring examples of sexism in the English language, there is no official name for a man with a bangin’ body and just an okay, if even passable, face. And no, “butter face boy” or “justicebody” (“just his body”) do not count. Are not nearly as tailored or insulting. 

Which is rather what makes it all the more upsetting that he’s profiting from the labeling of this type of woman during a pandemic. But hey, that’s patriarchy, innit?

Men Who Remark, “You Are Delusional” When You Say Something Against Art (Or Anything Else) of the Old Guard.

Right in keeping with the “instant write-off” “burn” of “OK Boomer,” a tradition as old as time for “men” has been the tried and true gaslighting method. In keeping with that tactical shutdown of any opinion–particularly a woman’s opinion–against that which is accepted as The Unequivocal Truth (e.g. Ulysses is an unbesmirchable masterwork), one of the simplest ways to negate a female and make her feel like she ought to shut up lest she start talking further nonsense is simply: “You are delusional.” Knowing full well that this once cut to the jugular for its intention to scare a girl into thinking she might have to go the way of Mrs. Lincoln or Frances Farmer, with the “men” in white coats sure to come and put her in her own white coat of a straightjacket. Well, darling, fuck that. So-called crazy is worn as a badge of honor these days as though it is a form of cosmic retribution for all the times any “abnormal” behavior or dissenting viewpoint was suppressed by “men” and their power-hungry need to puppeteer the thoughts of others to mimic their own.

The image of a “man” making the “crazy” gesture–circling his index finger near his temple–comes to mind as he tauntingly chirps, “You are delusional” to any woman who has said something that is, from his perspective, not in keeping with formerly accepted without question old guard “truths.” But how is this immediate rebuffing supposed to breed any form of intelligent conversation or cultivate an overall philosophy of heterogeneousness (after all, don’t “men” of this nature tout all things “hetero”)? Alas, thanks to the political climate of the past several years, there has been a societal conditioning to believe that argument is no longer intelligent, but merely a product of harboring the “wrong” stance. They get particularly uppity if you violently suggest that–gasp!–despite white “men” being the most pervasive kind of “artist” in every century, this sect is, in fact, the most whining, noncreative excuse for “artistry” the world has ever known (this includes Christopher Isherwood, invention of Montmere or not). But no, we cannot say such things. Such things are “delusional”–merely a product of an undiscerning woman’s inability to separate a feel for talent from her own feeling of being jilted by the type of person who masturbates over white “men” and all they “do” on a daily basis.

That’s fine though, this delusionoid would rather be pazza than finger the pages of James Joyce with reverence when I could be fingering my pussy with much more genuine respect instead. You go on ahead and have your Birth of a Nation/Gone With the Wind viewing party with Trump though. Just make sure you know that you’re the one actually in the padded room as you soak up these “beacons” of High Art.

Men Who Pose As A Ken Doll a.k.a. Men Who Pose Without the One Part of Themselves That Means Anything.

While Pete Davidson somehow manages to continue to be the “most desirable” “man” in the entertainment industry (though there’s not much to be entertained by in his SNL sketches), he’s striking while the, er, plastic is…hot–but not totally melted. This, of course, referencing his recent foray into adopting the persona of a Ken doll, complete with nothing but a nub for genitalia to match. Naturally, this is all meant to be very tongue-in-cheek since the only memorable rumors regarding Davidson are the size of his member, thanks in large part to Ariana Grande’s written vote of confidence as immortalized in her version of Mean Girls’ Burn Book in the “thank u, next” video

All devoid puppy dog eyes as he stares at the camera in various scenarios as the character of anatomically incorrect Ken, all one can think is: are men that afraid of terrifying women with the only thing left they have to offer that means anything to them? Sure, we understand that in the present “witch hunt” climate, as “men” like to call it (though one would really love to see how they fared during the actual witch hunts of Salem), they’re scared of chancing upon scandalizing “fragile” women in any way lest they be accused of something. Even so, does the average “man” not understand that, at this juncture, it’s certainly not their mind that’s going to win women over? 

As a first attempt at objectifying “men,” this is an extremely weak offer. As is Davidson talking about masturbating to Leonardo DiCaprio in the article for further boner killing to any woman who might have tried to be aroused by his “intellect.” Or his “profundity” in posing as a “depressed Ken” from Staten Island (if that’s so, then why the fuck was this shot in Bushwick?). Yet the idea was apparently sprung from an “intellectual ribbing” between interviewer and 13 Reasons Why actor Tommy Dorfman in which he suggested Davidson adopt the Ken doll shtick, with the latter adding, somewhat too enthusiastically, “Yeah! And dickless, like, with Ken-dick.”

If it was intended as a way to play up the fact that Davidson is ogled by women more than the average “man” (at least in his mind, and judging from the recent string of girls, not women, he’s dated), the aim was not achieved. For it doesn’t seem as though Davidson even has a grasp of what the “female gaze” is when asked about it, instead transitioning to a comment about how people either love him or hate him. Ineloquently phrased as, “I do know that [the gaze] is either, ‘Ye-YESSS!’ or ‘FUCK NO!’ There’s no happy medium with me, which I think is really fun. It’s either like, ‘Oh, that guy’s awesome,” or it’s like, “I hope that guy fucking falls off of a cliff.'”

It makes sense that he would gloss over what it means to fulfill the female gaze, for to truly pander to women, as Davidson says he does in relationships by treating them like “princesses,” one would have to actually not be afraid of being “offensive” in the one way it truly mattered: visually. A.k.a. offering us a Ken with a real dick. But oh wait, because Ken was created as a feminine ideal from the perspective of “men” (specifically Elliott Handler) who think women are too “dainty” to handle seeing some bona fide salsiccia (as the Italians would say), it’s only to be expected that his censored anatomy would endure in the twenty-first century. 

Where words are concerned, Davidson remains to be all talk (with no fear about speaking on how pop stars use gay “men” as props or how stand-up comedy is too much of a hot potato at present therefore he won’t perform at colleges anymore). Just like the rest of his nub-packing brethren who won’t give up the goods in any other form than word vomit.